


we lost magic light until tomorrow night

by alciavikkander



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Europe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 15:51:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alciavikkander/pseuds/alciavikkander
Summary: If someone had told her she’d be traveling the world, living the dream, and doing it all with a stranger she met way back when, she would’ve laughed.---In which Rory changes her major and her life.





	1. 2006

**Author's Note:**

> **Characters/Pairings** : Rory Gilmore, Jess Mariano, Paris Geller, Lorelai Gilmore; Rory/Jess
> 
>  **Spoilers/Warnings** : AU; one reference to child abuse; some sexual situations.
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : Some dialogue taken from show. Title is from "Art House Director" by Broken Social Scene. 
> 
> **Notes** : Thanks to Lindsay for being a wonderful and patient beta since I literally worked on this until the last possible minute. And immense thanks to Kris for co-running the fest with me and listening to my incessant whining about how my writing is going all wrong. And thank you to everyone else who supported me even when I wanted to scrap the entire thing. Hope you like it!

_but, honey, i’ll be seeing you, ever, i go._

_i’ll be seeing you, down every road._

\- Lorde -  


The streets of Italy are busy at half past noon as Rory sits at a shaded table at a corner bistro that’s about five minutes from campus. Couples on vespas ride past her and men try to catch her eye, as she snaps a picture of two women a few tables over, leaning close together and their pinkies curled with each other’s. They notice her with her not-so-conspicuous camera causing her to turn away in embarrassment, yet they just laugh it off.  


Ever since she’s taken up photography, Rory’s never quite been able to freely take a candid picture of someone; being much better at landscapes, it’s how she landed herself in the heart of Rome.  


She remembers applying to internships at the end of her sophomore year, papers piled on her work desk at the Yale Daily News and Paris purposely knocking them down so she could rifle through them like a busybody.  


“Photography internships? Really, Gilmore?” She said, flipping the pages with her thumb.  


Rory stopped typing her article on the new student housing that Doyle assigned her to look up. What a Chilton flashback.  


“Yes, Paris. What about it?”  


She scoffed and dropped the stack back onto edge of her desk. “What about it is that photography anything is for people who aren’t smart enough or capable enough to do anything more worthwhile in their life.”  


All Rory could do was stare at her incredulously, mouth open like a fish.  


“Close your mouth, you’re starting to drool.”  


Shaking her head, Rory asked, “What are you saying, exactly?”  


“I’m saying why don’t you go for newspapers, magazines? You know, writing; what you’re good at.”  


She rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer and continued to write where she left off. “I know this might come as a surprise to you, but there are plenty of jobs that allow you to do both photography _and_ writing.” She hit delete on an immediate error and looked up with a serious look on her face. “ _Both_ of which I’m good at. Also, you’re the one who put me on the photojournalism side of things, it’s not my fault I liked it. If anything, it’s yours.”  


Paris waved her hand in dismissal. “You could always take that internship with Mitchum. Use the leeway that sleeping with Logan gets you.”  


After the way his family treated her, Rory didn’t see herself taking anything from them. She’s not that gullible. The only person she _did_ deal with was Logan and that was simply on ‘call me if you’re bored’ terms.  


“Paris, you know I want nothing to do with that guy.” She said, making some finishing touches on her article.  


“It’s a great opportunity! Are you really going to be that stubborn?”  


Rory shrugged, keeping her shoulders held high. “What can I say? It’s part of my charm.” She clicked print at the corner of the page. “Plus, what kind of opportunity is it walking around an office and taking people’s coffee orders anyways? Just take no for an answer, it’ll go a long way.”  


Paris sighed, her face pinched in displeasure. “Whatever.”  


“Thanks for the support, Paris.” Getting up, she took her purse off the back of her chair and grabbed the stack of forms that her friend through down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she raised the stack, waving them in the air. “I have to go send these off.”  


“You’re being really stupid,” Paris yelled after her as she made her way out of the room.  


Little did she know that the opportunity she’d choose is the only study abroad package that was stuck in the middle of the bunch. She arrived in Italy three months ago as part of the study abroad program at John Cabot University, focusing on photography and journalism.  


It’ll have been exactly two months come Monday, the day of midterms, that she’s been here and she really needs to focus on getting this damn project done.  


Taking a last sip of her cappuccino and paying the check, she takes off down several blocks, past the couple whose private moment she unintentionally intruded upon earlier and families of tourists with cameras in hand and ends up overlooking the river from the Ponte Vittorio bridge.  


This is one of her favourite places to stand and watch the sun go down, even with the busy street behind her. It was also one of the first pictures she took on her trip here two years ago with her grandmother, the same one -- among a few others -- that got her into the study abroad program.  


She takes a deep breath, the air refreshing and the sun warm. The slight breeze whips her hair around her face and her dress flutters around her knees, and for a brief moment in time she doesn’t think life could get any better than this.  


\---  


“Ugh, life sucks!”  


“Hey, honey,” her mother’s mocking voice trails over the pre-paid travel phone, “and how are you?”  


It’s half past two for Rory and she just got out of her journalism class. Late. She didn’t have any other classes the rest of the day, so she decided to make her way around the city to take pictures and finish up this photography assignment that was due the next day. Until things didn’t go as planned.  


“It’s horrible! I just got out of class and was gonna take the bus to the other side of the city to take some pictures for that project I was telling you about, but class ran late and I stepped in a puddle so my shoe is soaking wet, I missed the bus by like two minutes and then forgot my charger for my camera. Which is dead, by the way.”  


She huffs down the cobblestone streets, sitting at a lone bench to wring out her wet canvas shoe.  


“Why didn’t you just charge it last night?”  


The phone is still stuck between shoulder and ear, frustration flaring through her body. “Oh my god, why didn’t think of that first?”  


“Okay, crabby.”  


“I left it charging in the dorm while I ran off to get dinner last night. It was fully loaded, I must have left the camera on from before and it ran the battery down.”  


Her mother sighs, obviously feeling bad that she can’t help. “Why don’t you just go buy another one?” She says, the sound of the morning rush in the diner resounding over the phone. “I’m sure there’s plenty of camera shops there.”  


“With what money?” Rory gripes, searching through her bag for her wallet. She opens to find less than two euros, no change, and one card that she knows has very little on it. “All the money grandma and grandpa wired me for the next two weeks has been used, I can’t ask for more.”  


“I’m sure if you expl--,” Lorelai starts, but immediately interrupts herself. “Wait, don’t they wire you almost $500 every other week?”  


Rory’s eyes widen, as she clams up and whispers a soft, “Yes.”  


“What was that?”  


“Yes! Okay? Yes!” She relents, sagging against the back of the bench. “I figured, you know, I only go out to eat once or twice a week, the university pays for the rest of my meals, and I saw really cute boots and a few dresses and -- hey, I’m in Italy, shouldn’t I be living it up?!”  


Lorelai laughs, sighing as it dies down. “Not when you have a budget, my friend.” It’s silent for a few seconds before her mom speaks again. “You really spent over 400 bucks on clothes? God, you really are my daughter.”  


“Well, I did learn from the best.” They laugh together softly as Rory sticks her slightly damp shoe back on her foot, sticking the phone back between shoulder and ear to tie it. “I still have no idea what to do. Even if I went all the way back to the dorm and charged the battery, it’d be too late in the day to get the perfect shot.”  


There’s crunching over the phone, her mother probably munching on a piece of bacon. Her stomach rumbles, remembering that she skipped lunch today.  


“You could always just... _not_ do it,” Lorelai says, sounding pretty serious.  


She scoffs, putting her foot flat on the ground. It’s still cold and wet, but she’ll have to deal. “Mom.”  


“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘Bad influence, blah blah blah.’”  


“Thank you,” Rory says, honestly thinking about it for a quick second before squashing the idea. She really needs to pass this mid-term project. She hasn’t confided in her mom about it, but she hasn’t been doing the best since she’s been here. She passes, just not with A’s and it’s starting to wear on her because she’s usually the brightest student in every class.  


She never realized quite what a ride this would be, but she’s not planning to give up over a few bad grades.  


She pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingertips as she closes her eyes. “Okay, um, well I should go. Paris is flying in from London tomorrow morning after my class, I might as well get the dorm clean.”  


“Okie, dokie. Just don’t worry about it. You’ll figure something out, kid, you always do.”  


“You’re right.” Rory grabs her keys out of the side pocket of her bag, deciding she might as well go back. She sighs, “I always do. Bye, mom.”  


“Bye.”  


Right as she hangs up the phone, Rory feels a thunk behind her. Turning around she see’s a thick red book with the words ‘Pablo Neruda’ written on the top and a guy around her age standing  next to her, his feet spread and his hands in his pockets.  


She looks up at him, his unruly hair sticking straight up, a pencil tucked behind his ear and his dark denim jacket splayed open to reveal a Dinosaur Jr. t-shirt underneath. _Good taste._ He’s incredibly cute, she notices at first glance, obvious Italian features highlighting his good looks. “Um...hi.”  


He twitches his eyebrows upwards along with a small tilt of his head. “Hey.”  


Hmm, American. She giggles softly as her eyebrows scrunch in confusion. “Can I help you?”  


“Yeah,” he scratches the back of his head, his lips tilting up in the corner as he sits on the other side of the book. “Um, see, I was just sitting over there while you seemed to be having some kind of existential crisis, and couldn’t help but overhear.”  


“So, you were eavesdropping.”  


She crosses her legs, turning in her seat to face him.  


He waves his hand through the air nonchalantly, “Overhear, eavesdrop. It’s all the same difference.”  


Rory purses her lips, looking skyward with a squint of her eyes. “No, I don’t think it is.”  


“Yeah, well.”  


He remains quiet, fiddling with the book before dropping it back between them, as she watches the crowd of people and cars intertwine.  


“So, what’s with the book?” She flips the edges of the book with her thumbnail. “You don’t look much like a ‘tender love and care poetry’ kind of guy.”  


Laughing huskily, a small dimple rises on his cheek and she has to look away cause it seems so out of place. “I’m not, really.” She sends him a confused look. “My roommate pretty much forced me into reading it. Not bad, though.” He scratches beneath his ear before sticking his hand back in his jacket pocket. “I’m more of a ‘creative freedom, devil-may-care attitude’ kind of guy.”  


“Oh, the Beats.” She scoffs, rolling her eyes playfully. “Should’ve figured.” He meets her eyes, questioning. “I mean,” she gestures at him, waving her hand up and down his body, “you definitely have the look.”  


He holds a hand to his heart. “Is that a crack at my fashion sense?”  


She simply smiles, a breath of laughter escaping her nose.  


“Let me guess, you’re more of a ‘Jane Austen, Jane Eyre’ kind of girl?”  


She laughs loudly, knowing that’d be her first impression. “Partly, yes. But I like a little Bukowski from time to time.” Knocking on the cover of the book between them with her knuckles, she quickly says, “And poetry, too.”  


His eyes widen and his mouth curl in appreciation, “Well, I’ve always said Austen would’ve liked Bukowski.”  


“Whoa,” she blows a breath out of her mouth, lips pursed. “My friend Paris would have a field day with you.”  


He squints, asking tersely, “Is that good?”  


“For her, maybe,” shaking her head, “but not for you.”  


Smiles widen as they stare at each other for longer than is necessary. She sucks in a breath before looking away. “I’m Rory, by the way.”  


“Jess.”  


Their quiet for a few minutes; she doesn’t know quite what to say, this is all too weird.  


“Um, anyways, I should probably get going.”  


“Hot date?”  


“If by hot date, you mean doing laundry and cleaning every square inch of my dorm room, then yes. I was supposed to finish this project for my photography class, but as you could probably recall from _eavesdropping_ on me, my camera is dead.”  


“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”  


“It’s due tomorrow morning.”  


Shrugging, he simply says, “Worse things have happened.”  


“Very true.” She smiles in gratitude. “Thanks.”  


“No, problem.”  


Pushing up on the edge of the bench, he stands, zipping up his jacket at a breeze that rolls through.  


“See you around?” She asks, the feeling of hope resting on her tongue as she stands with him.  


“I don’t think I’ll have a choice.”  


Licking her lips, she looks down at her feet, noticing the Neruda still laying on the wood.  


“Wait, you forgot your book.” Rory sticks her hand out, ready to hand it back to him as he starts backing away.  


“Oh, it’s yours.” He smirks, raising his eyebrows skyward. “See you, Rory.”  


She stares after him, mouth open, watching him as he slowly turns around and heads down the street.  


Grabbing her things she heads in the opposite direction, stopping at the bus station.  


\---  


She rifles through the book on the bus ride, confused as hell at what just happened. Although, she got a free book out of the exchange, so she can’t complain too much.  


Neruda has always been one of her favourite poets, besides Plath and Dorothy Parker; she used to stuff _20 Love Poems and a Song of Despair_ in her backpack during high school and read it during lunch, wondering what it would be like to be adored that much.  


There’s a page about a quarter of the way in, bunched up slightly from the rest and she flips to it quickly in curiosity. Resting there is a fairly crinkled 20 Euro note and something written underneath the folded corner. Unfolding it, she sees neat scrawl in black pen: _Here’s to help with your existential crisis. - Jess  
  
_

A few lines down, a dark underline marks the line: _I want to measure how much I do not know, and this is how I arrive.  
  
_

It’s a foreign concept for her, a strange yet attractive guy automatically willing to help her without barely talking to her. With the exception of her mom and Luke, her grandparents and the invasive yet sweet people she grew up around, Rory doesn’t think she’s ever experienced that from someone she didn’t know. She likes it.  


Smiling into the book, she stuffs the money in the pocket of her dress, hooks her bag around her shoulder and grabs the line above to call for the bus to stop.  


She’s got a crisis to avert.  


\---  


They don’t see each other again for three months. Rory’s been busy as hell, a new semester and new rules to follow, new classes to attend and new projects to ace. The journalism class is easy, time spent on the Franklin and the Yale Daily News being used to her advantage.  


She sent a few of her pieces into local publications and got published, twice. Lorelai sent five new books she thinks Rory would like in celebration.  


The art history class is pretty self explanatory, memorization and studying facts has always come like second nature to her. She sets aside every other Saturday to visit art and history museums, keeping pictures for future reference and taking notes until every inch of her moleskin notebook is crammed.  


The photography class is the one she loves the most. Three days a week of sitting behind her computer, looking through the hundreds of pictures she took each weekend. So much so, she had to invest in an external hard drive considering her computer sounded like a dying cat after four months of putting it through the ringer. It’s the intermediate, next level version of the class she took the semester before, allowing her to become even more familiar with the ways of the camera and editing -- photoshop has become one of her best friends in times of trouble.  


At the end of last semester, close to finals, Paris had surprisingly informed her that becoming part of the blogosphere was the way to go. Rory certainly didn’t want that, seeing it as a waste of time and energy when there were other ways to get the experience she needed. And yet, her friend’s nagging voice was always one step ahead of her: _No one is going to see anything if you don’t put it out there, Gilmore. Make it happen.  
  
_

Yet she did it anyways, feeling the smug satisfaction from Paris several countries away. Setting up the website was easy -- putting almost every picture she had taken and several amusing anecdotes to mix it up -- and was what got her an ‘A’ for the end of the semester.  


Within two months she got almost 5,000 followers, and sent Paris a obligatory ‘thank you’ bottle of wine.  


\---  


Spring Break snuck on her, taking her by surprise due to her busy schedule, but she couldn’t be happier to see it come.  


She’s snuggled tightly in a coach seat between the window and young kid who won’t stop screaming, heading to Cambridge to visit Paris. They’re going to spend most of their time traveling around England and Ireland, but she just knows her friend is going be doing _something_ pre-law related so Rory is glad she’s bringing her camera to get some work done, too.  


Excitement bubbles in her belly as she leans her head against the window, watching the ground fly by beneath her. The last time she went to England was with her mom after her high school graduation and it was only for two days before they skipped onto the next place. Being able to finally breathe the air there might do her some good.  


Closing her eyes, she feels the tendrils of sleep climb over here before the kid next to her screams once again, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand up. She sighs, looking over the at the kid’s father sitting in the aisle seat and sees he’s got ear-plugs in. Perfect.  


She drags her carry-on out from under her seat and grabs her headphones and the current book she’s reading, before settling back and letting Sonic Youth blast through the speakers.  


This is going to be the longest two and half hours of her life.  


\---  


“I’m glad you chose England over Denmark, because I know a lot of different languages, but Danish is certainly not one of them,” Rory says, leaning forward to change the song on the stereo. Again.  


“Imagine if I chose to go to China instead.” She frowns. “Will you just choose a song, Gilmore? This is getting old,” Paris says, distracted by her friends constant fiddling with the CD player, choosing just the right song as they drive out to Birmingham. ‘Big Jet Plane’ starts playing softly.  


“There.”  


Her friend’s face is pinched at the song, but she waves her hand in the direction of the stereo, letting it be. “Whatever.”  


“Thank you. Nice car, by the way.”  


“I know.”  


She rubs her hands on the black leather interior, still smooth and comfortable with that quintessential new car smell. “How could you even afford this? I thought your family went broke after your parents official divorce.”  


“I helped father find a loophole in the contract they wrote up. Good thing, too, because I’m still technically under him until after graduation. Mother is still upset I didn’t get into Harvard, so I’d rather not go through that again, you remember. ” Rory nods, silent as she remembers Paris mother yelling at her in the middle of the Chilton hallway after the CNN broadcast meltdown, not caring who heard. “As much as I boast independence, I’d like to not be broke for the next two years, thank you very much.”  


Rory turns right in the seat to face Paris, moving the seat belt behind her head to get more comfortable. “Using that pre-law training to your advantage.” She grabs her Coke from the cup holder, taking a quick sip. “But, what was the point? You’re only going to be here for a few more months.”  


“I think father is using it as a bribe for me to switch back to pre-med,” she says, shaking her head with a smile, “which isn’t going to happen. You know how I am about sick people.”  


“I still don’t get that, but go on.”  


“That’s pretty much it. He knew I’d be staying here and wanted me not to have to rely on taking the bus system everywhere. To be honest, I’m grateful for that one.”  


The buses in Italy must be cleaner than a whistle compared to the buses here. Rory simply laughs in response.  


“Also, father got a place out here a few months ago. Well, in London, so I guess he figured what’s the worst another car can do, right?”  


“Not to mention that huge trust fund you’re getting in a few months,” Rory says, yet she can’t complain since she’s getting two.  


Paris smirks as she looks straight ahead, “Yeah, well.”  


They ride in silence for a while, passing moderate traffic on the A14 and the music playing softly in the background, almost non-existent. She’s glad to be traveling again, the complacency of staying in one place getting old pretty quickly, despite it being beautiful Rome. It’s why she spends some of her weekends traveling around Italy -- when she can -- an hour to two away so she’s not too far out of bounds while she’s in school.  


It’s still not enough for her though. She can’t wait to graduate and the real adventure begins.  


\---  


She jolts awake at half past three when her phone vibrates in the back pocket of her jeans. Lifting her hips up an inch, she grabs the buzzing object and sees a notification from her website that a ‘jessm’ has subscribed.  


Frowning, she opens up the internet in a fortunate hotspot to see that the person wrote in the comments of her recent post “The Ruins of Hadrian’s Villa”-- one of her more popular posts with almost 13,000 shares across several platforms -- _Well, it looks like you actually did figure it out. Who would’ve thought. - Jess  
  
_

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion and her stomach jumps as her mind flashes back to several months ago and the cute guy who saved her from failing her midterm. She clicks on his profile picture, a small black and white circular thing that looks to be done professionally from what she can tell, and it’s him. Clear as day.  


His hair is still crazy and his face is still slim with a crooked bottom lip as he smiles. He’s still as handsome as she remembers and when she clicks out of his picture and notices the rest of his biography she’s shocked to find out that he’s an author.  


Specifically the author of the book she’s currently reading.  


She sits straight up, the seat belt still behind her head so as not to choke her, and whispers, “Oh my god.”  


“Someone’s finally up,” Paris snarks. “What’s up?”  


“ _Oh my god_ .”  


“Rory, what?”  


“You know that book I made you read a few weeks ago, the short novel; very Beats prose like?”  


“Ugh, Beats.” She turns to see Rory scrunching up her mouth in distaste. “Sorry. ‘The Sub’-something?”  


“‘The Sub _sect_ ’, yes. That one.”  


“What about it?”  


“And remember that guy in Rome that basically saved my life and my photography grade?”  


Paris rolls her eyes as she says, “Ugh, the guy who thought it’d be sauve to do it through a Neruda collection. Romantic.”  


Rory stops, “Okay, your 2 cents? Not needed.”  


“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop,” she says, lifting her hands off the wheel in surrender.  


“Thank you.” She zooms in on the profile picture, turning it so Paris can see it quickly before turning back to the road. “Those two people? Same guy.”  


“No way, that is too much of a coincidence.”  


“It is, but it’s the same guy!”  


“How did you not realize this, though. He wrote his name in your book, right?” Her friend flips the turn signal, heading off towards the upcoming off ramp.  


“Yeah, but I didn’t get his book until, probably, a month and a half after that? I completely forgot about it.”  


“What a soulmate,” she says, sardonically.  


Rory ignores her, instead hitting the phone number under his name on the contact page, hoping it links to a cell phone and not a landline. When it does she pauses, racking her brain for what to say without being too pushy. It says that he’s based out of New York right now -- having gotten back from his European book tour not long ago -- so she also hopes that she’s not waking him up.  


Rory Gilmore:  
_Well, look who it is._

 _  
_ Rory Gilmore:   
_This is Rory, by the way, if you remember me.  
  
_

She’s nervous all of a sudden, not understanding why given he just opened a door for communication on his own. It probably has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they only talked once over five months ago, and she doesn’t really have any idea who he is besides a hugely successful author and that he likes punk music according to the shirt she remembers him wearing on the day they first met.  


No, absolutely nothing to do with that.  


It takes him a few minutes to respond, he’s either busy or the signal is weak on her end. Yet, when he does, her stomach flips in barely repressed excitement.  


Jess Mariano:

_Oh, I remember.  
  
_

She smiles, teeth grazing her bottom lip.  


Rory Gilmore:

_You never told me you were an author. I feel kind of cheated.  
  
_

Jess Mariano:

_I hinted at it, it’s not my fault you never picked up on the clues.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_According to my friend, I can be pretty clueless.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_Still, it’s a pretty big coincidence.  
  
_

The three dots rise on her screen, but before he can send his response she takes a quick picture of her holding up his book underneath her chin, her nose and lips making it into the shot. She doesn’t think twice before hitting send.  


He backs out of whatever he was writing, indicated by the disappearing dots before sending something.  


Jess Mariano:

_Nice to know I’m influential across genres now.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_That doesn’t count when one of them you don’t even like.  
  
_

Jess Mariano:  
_Hey, I’ve grown to like him more since then, so it’s not all bad.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_Good. And I did keep that anthology tucked safely away, so I guess I have to thank you for that.  
  
_

Jess Mariano:

_And not for the daring rescue?  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_Anything you can do, I can do better.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_But yes, thank you for that, too.  
  
_

“Wipe that smile off your face, Gilmore,” Paris says, pulling over to the closest gas station. “It’s nauseating.”  


“Says the girl who caused me to wear ear muffs for the better part of sophomore year because of you and Doyle,” she says, pulling a slightly disgusted face at the vivid flashbacks. She reaches into her purse to grab a few pounds she exchanged for at Heathrow. “Can you grab me a coffee while you’re in there?”  


“Sure.” Paris takes the money, draping her purse over her shoulder. “Oh, and tell Burroughs to tone down the existentialism next time.”  


“Bye!”  


Looking down, she sees he’s written a simple ‘you’re welcome’, but nothing else. Grabbing her empty coke bottle, she gets out and heads for the trash can next to the building, typing as she walks.  


Rory Gilmore:

_By the way, my friend Paris said to be a little less Burroughs-y next time.  
  
_

Jess Mariano:  
_I’m a produce of influence, what can I say.  
  
_

Jess Mariano:

_Plus, how does she know there’s gonna be another book?  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_….Don’t joke.  
  
_

Jess Mariano:

_I guess you’ll have to wait and see.  
  
_

The conversation lulls for a couple minutes as she leans against the side of the building. She feels somewhat out of place here, stupidly only packing sundresses for a country with a _great_ high of 50°. Maybe she’ll ask Paris to go to London tomorrow so they can go shopping and she can buy more than one pair of pants. The phone in her hand vibrates again.  


Jess Mariano:

_I should go. I have a meeting at 10 with my editor that, no matter how much I want to miss to continue chatting, I can’t.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_I guess I won’t have to wait that long then.  
  
_

Jess Mariano:

_Bye, Rory.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_Bye, Jess.  
  
_

She exits the conversation, wrapping the sleeves of her jean jacket over her knuckles as she presses the phone against her growing smile.  


Paris comes back out, a tall coffee in one hand and a water and bag of chips in the other, and jumps when she sees Rory.  


“Oh, sorry. I was just stretching,” she says, grabbing the cup out of her friend’s hand.  


“I saw your dopey smile from inside, I assume he’s a good texting flirt, too?”  


“No flirting, just talking. We don’t even know each other.”  


“Doesn’t stop most people. Hell, I’ve been known to sext every now and then.”  


“Oh my god!” She grimaces, starting towards the car without making sure Paris follows.  


\---  


Five minutes later, Paris is blasting Kanye as they continue down the freeway and Rory stares at the texts before adding him as a contact.  


Switching back to the website, his profile is still up. It’s obvious that it was probably pushed by the editor as ‘free publicity’, but she’s perfectly fine with taking advantage of way to stay up-to-date on his whereabouts.  


Hitting subscribe, she quickly writes in the comments section: _Can’t wait for the totally obvious next book. - Rory  
  
_

\---  


The next few months fly by and she’s been talking to Jess almost every day, filling each other in on their lives and learning more about each other -- he was born in New York City and still lives there today despite a small stint in Philadelphia, he’s been to 50 different concerts just between the ages of 15 and 22, and he’s not a fan of coffee (his uncle forced his tea drinking habits on him when he was younger).  


Finals are right around the corner, resulting in her speaking to him less and less for a short amount of time. Her spring break trip with Paris resulted in about 500 new pictures taken, about 30 edited ones making it up onto her site and a guaranteed ‘A’ in her photography class, especially given the professor has a soft spot for her and her independent project.  


She’s gained another 1,000 followers, and was even able to get some of her photos used in a few Italian magazines. Extra cash and recognition is always a good thing.  


One day she sneaks a picture of the first magazine to use one of her works and sent it to Jess and he called her during dinner to tell her congratulations and then proceeded to tell her that the rough draft of his new book is coming together.  


(“Ah ha! I knew it!”  


“I know you did.”)  


She ends up ordering a second piece of cake to celebrate for him.  


\---  


It’s ten after 10:00 when she calls him in a panic, her leg bouncing agitatedly as the phone continues to ring longer than it should.  


It stops ringing as a muffled, tired voice comes over the other side, saying, “You really need to start remembering the time difference.”  


Sighing, she scrunches her eyes in frustration. “Ugh, sorry. It’s just habit.”  


“S’okay,” Jess says, yawning around his words. She hears the stiff sheets shuffle and his slight groan as he sits up. She tries not to picture what he looks like in that moment. “What’s up?”  


Chewing on her thumbnail, she paces around the room, thankful not to have a roommate right now. “I am freaking out. I have been up since 4 am, pacing around this tiny little dorm wondering what the hell I am doing.”  


“And what is that?”  


“ _Nothing_ .  


“Nothing,” he repetitively states.  


“Yes, nothing. Going to school, sure, but for what? Right? I spend hours a day in classes and even more hours at the newspaper and then I study abroad and completely change what I thought I’d be doing for the rest of my life, and, I ask again, for what? Absolutely nothing.”  


“Well-,” he starts to say before cutting himself off and giving a sleepy chuckle. “I’m sure the three magazines who have published your work, the internship you’re applying to that will obviously take you, and the consistent good grades beg to differ.”  


“Yeah,” she says, continuing on as if she hadn’t heard him, “but that’s still nothing!”  


“Geez.” She can practically hear him rolling her eyes and it makes her want to laugh because she knows how ridiculous she’s being. Needless to say, going through a mid-twenties life crisis is one of the worst things she’s experienced.  


“I could do so much more, what am I waiting for?”  


He waits to answer. “Is that rhetorical?”  


She hears a high pitched cough over the phone, coming from farther away. “Uhm, sorry, I didn’t know you had someone over.”  


He’s silent for a moment before answering, voice laced with confusion. “What? I don’t have anyone over.”  


“Really?”  


He laughs, husky and quiet. “I’m pretty sure I’d notice if there was someone in bed with me.”

The jealousy that rises at the thought that he _might’ve_ had someone over is quickly squashed, utterly confused by what she’s feeling.

 

“I just heard that cough, or something--”

 

“That’s one of my roommates,” he says, still laughing, “he just so happens to have a really effeminate voice.”

 

“Oh,” she whispers.

 

She can practically hear him shaking his head in jest. “Shameful.”

 

“You don’t have your own place?”

 

“Contrary to what you believe, staying number 20 on the best seller’s list still doesn’t mean I make enough to live in a big loft apartment overlooking central park.”

 

She’s never given much thought to how much it actually costs to live in the city, but it’s what you get being a Gilmore. Never seeing herself as privileged caused a rude awakening when she met Logan who threw away money like it was nothing and partied so much that she wondered how far back it set his father.

 

Probably not much.

 

She tries to spend every cent she gets with care these days.

 

“Where do you live then?”

 

“Lower East Side, born and raised.”

 

She stays silent, giving away how little she knows.

 

“Close to Washington Square Park?”

 

“Umm…,” she draws the word out, confusion laced in every letter.

 

“Oh, come on.”

 

“I mean, I know _of_ it, but I don’t know the exact location,” she defends herself. “I’ve been to the city a grand total of three times, forgive me if I’m a little foggy on the details.”

 

“Well, then I’ll have to show you around next time.”

 

“My own personal, broody tour guide,” she says, biting her lip at the image of them standing closer together on the train, finger touching as they wrap the pole; or taking a detour to her favourite pizza place that she went to with her mom in celebration when her and Paris won the presidency and vice-presidency her sophomore year.

 

“I stopped being broody by 17.”

 

“Sad?”

 

“Pensive, at best.”

 

“Emo?”

 

“Bye, Rory.”

 

“Bye, Jess.”

 

Hanging up, she casually throws the phone to the end of her bed as she gets up and gets ready for her afternoon exam. Her chest feels lighter, her fingers aren’t shaking, and she realizes she didn’t think about being a failure once when talking to him.

 

\---

 

He sends her an email later in the day when he’s wide awake and she’s stopped at a coffee shop before heading back to the school. It’s a picture of his spiral notebook, every inch covered in black ink, with a simple caption underneath:

 

_Rough draft started. - Jess_

 

That makes her feel better than any generic ‘you’ll figure out’ text anyways.

 

\---

 

“How does it feel to be leaving?”

 

“Sad. Bittersweet. Any other word that basically proves that I don’t want to leave.”

 

Lorelai calls her the day before she takes off, voiced filled with happiness at the promise of seeing her daughter again after a year of pretty much radio silence outside of a few phone calls here and there. Rory didn’t get to go home for Christmas which really rubbed a sore spot with her mom and her grandparents alike.

 

“Even though you get to see my beautiful face once again?”

 

She folds up her dresses neatly and stuffs them at the bottom of her suitcase as she lets out a chuckle. “I already see your face everyday because you forced me to take a picture of you with me because it would help me remember what you look like.”

 

“What if I grew old?”

 

“In the span of a year?”

 

“Weirder things have happened. I could have super big wrinkles and and liver spots the size of quarters on my face. I could have a beer gut.”

 

“You don’t even like beer.”

 

“You’re right, I’m strictly a mixed drink kind of girl.”

 

Rory sighs, moving to her desk to pack away her extra binders and school things. “Even so, I’m pretty sure _if_ you did grow marginally old in that amount of time I’d still recognize you, _mom_.”

 

“I do just like to hear it.”

 

“Vain.”

 

“Confident.”

 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night,” she says, shaking her head playfully.

 

Lorelai gasps, “Wow, Europe has made you mean.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“What time are you leaving again?”

 

“Um,” she stalls as she searches through her purse for her tickets, “I’m leaving at 6:30 in the morning and I have two layovers and won’t get back until 7 tomorrow night. Did you have something planned?”

 

“No, not me.”

 

Her eyes widen, closing them as she bites her tongue. “Grandma?”

 

“Ding ding ding!”

 

“Seriously?! The _night_ I get back? Does she not realize how jet lagged I’ll be, I could fall asleep at the table.”

 

“You know how she is, I’ve trained you to recognize the signs since birth.” Her mother tears something on the other end, the muffled sound of ripping paper traveling through. “Oh! Your new set of pictures came in!”

 

Rory has been sending new pictures to her mom once a month, ones she won’t send into magazines or use for classes or use on her website.

 

Special ones, just for her mother; like the cute guy who resembled Bono at a corner phone booth in London, or a ‘life’s a bitch and then you die so have a pint’ sign at a pub in Dublin, or the really remarkable one where she was served three of the same pizzas from different waiters in Venice because they wanted to talk to her -- that one was more for her to remember with a fond smile on her face, but she knew her mother would appreciate it.

 

“Oh, great. Have you been putting them together in a scrapbook like you said you would?”

 

Her mother doesn’t say a word and all Rory can picture is the photos piled on the coffee table waiting for the best ones to be chosen. “...Yes?”

 

“Mom! I’m going to be too busy to do it, I heard back from the internship  -- I’m starting next week!”

 

“Ah, that’s great, kid!”

 

“Thanks,” she says, smiling at how much her life seems to be changing so quickly.

 

“We can just save the scrapbooking _and_ Godfather watching for the week before you go back to school.”

 

She zips up her suitcase, having finally put everything away except for the outfit she’s going to wear on the plane and her toiletries which are still in the community bathroom. “Sounds good.”

 

“Are you excited?”

 

“And very nervous.”

 

“Do you know where you’re staying yet?”

 

“They said that they’re supplying housing as part of the stipend, but since I’ve only ever been to D.C. once I’m drawing a big old blank on where exactly they said.”

 

In a way, she’s glad she didn’t go for the internship with Mitchum. She knows back then that not only would she have been ready for it, but she also wanted to work for it herself. Being given something so easily, especially as just a consolation prize for having to deal with the Huntzburger family, is not how she would want to be remembered.

 

So, while she was abroad, she applied to every summer internship for magazines that she could find. Firstly, Condé Nast and Travel + Leisure that had absolutely nothing, and then smaller, city only magazines; namely D.C. Life. She heard back a few weeks ago, and was definitely excited to say the least. She’d be doing a lot of the design and writing portion of the issues, thankful she took a web design class her sophomore year.

 

It’s not exactly what she wanted, but for now, it’ll have to do and she got it _herself_ so that’s all that matters.

 

“I can’t believe you left me for a year, only to come back and leave me again for two more months. You  know how dependent I am,” she says, jokingly.

 

“Yes, unfortunately, I do.”

 

“Again, mean.”

 

She laughs, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear to zip up her backpack that she’s going to use as a carry-on. “I’ll work on that.”

 

“Okay,” she sighs, “well, I’ll see you tomorrow night. And I will _try_ to get out of the thing with Emily, but I make no promises.”

 

“Love you, Mom.”

 

“You, too, kid.”

 

\---

 

She tells her mom about Jess the week before school starts, as their lying around Chinese food containers and boxes of pizza and the Sofia death scene being played over and over.

 

Her mom’s skeptical at first, her maternal instincts kicking in at the fact that her only daughter is now good friends with and talking almost daily to someone she befriended on the streets of Rome. Yet, Rory continues on, talking about what he does for a living and ‘if he lives in New York how did you meet him in Europe’ and how they are _just friends_ despite Lorelai’s unbelieving face when she shows her a rather attractive picture of him.

 

(Lorelai later comes to tell her that this Jess is the same guy that sends Luke letters every now and then, the same Jess that is Luke’s nephew; she texts him a picture of Luke behind the counter -- when he doesn’t notice -- the next day saying: _You learn something new everyday._ )

 

She and Jess had talked pretty regularly while she was in D.C. -- him complaining that she was still too far away and her sending him pictures of all the crazy wacky people that could rival the townies where she lives. It’s been frustrating her to no end that after their first meeting they never got to talk in person again, texts and phone calls only going so far.

 

Long distance friendships are a thing, and they’re just as a hard.

 

(Lorelai still doesn’t quite believe her.)

 

\---

 

Senior year passes quickly and efficiently, with barely a hiccup or two to bump up the ride.

 

After her internship -- which mainly consisted of her getting coffees and sandwiches for everyone on top of what she was actually there to do -- she was grateful to be back in a more structured setting. The Daily News was as hectic as ever, especially when Paris became the new editor, and suffice it to say, most of the staff was not happy about it.

 

However, despite Rory’s initial shock at being skipped over for the opportunity, her friend allowed her to start a completely new column in the paper along with her usual beats headlines.

 

Logan tried to connect with her again, talking at her in the newsroom or around campus, he even tried to invite her out multiple times -- to Finn’s annual Halloween party that somehow always ends up being Tarantino themed, to a Life and Death Brigade weekend away, or even just on a date -- but every time he did she would find a way out of it.

 

Or Jess would thankfully text her saying something noncommittal and she would stop thinking of Logan altogether, eventually turning him down for good.

 

(Too bad her communication with Jess has dwindled, both being so busy it’s hard to find time to talk as often as they used to.)

 

And now, she’s standing on the stage in the Yale courtyard, blue robe fluttering against her legs in the wind, as she waits to get her diploma.

 

“Lorelai Leigh Gilmore!” The speaker boasts, the president of the school standing off to the side holding in his hands what will lead to the rest of her life.

 

She smiles as she crosses the stage, her heels drowned out by the clapping and hooting and hollering coming from her mother’s section of seats. After grabbing her diploma and shaking the president’s hand, she looks out to see her mother’s beaming face next to her grandparents and Luke. Her father failed to show, and frankly, she doesn’t give a damn as she sends a tear filled wave back to them before finding her seat.

 

\---

 

Her phone rings when she meets up with her family twenty minutes later. She unzips her robe to find her phone in the pocket of her dress, holding up her hand to say she’ll be a minute and runs off to the covered walkways, not bothering to look at the caller i.d.

 

“Hello?” Rory says, slightly out of breath. She shrugs out of the polyester garment that’s making her sweat all over and folds it on the closest bench.

 

There’s silence on the other end.

 

“Hello?” She says again before taking a stab in the dark. “Jess, is that you?”

 

The phone crackles. “Hey. Sorry, Matt won’t shut his mouth about his poet who can somehow _never meet a deadline_.”

 

‘This is important, Mariano, stop flirting with your girl and focus on the problem at hand,’ came a higher, frustrated voice over the phone.

 

She blushes, bashfully laughing as he coughs almost uncomfortably, before saying, “Anyways. Way to go, Doogie.”

 

“I am the normal age to be a college graduate, you know.”

 

“I know, I just always wanted to say that. How does it feel?”

 

“Almost too good to be true for a moment there.” She looks down, turning the toes of her shoes inward to touch each other. “Mostly scary, though.”

 

“The real world ain’t got nothin’ on you.”

 

Smiling softly, she looks back out towards the courtyard, watching the rest of her fellow students celebrating with their families, laughing joyously at being done with four years of gruesome schooling. She couldn’t agree more.

 

“So, since I couldn’t come up, I kind of sent you something. Well, to Luke, actually. He should have it there with him.”

 

“You sent me a gift?” Her voice rises in pitch, almost mocking.

 

“Think of it more as a ‘Congratulations on getting through four years of hell.’”

 

“Still.”

 

“Yeah, well.” He grumbles. “Either way, I think you’ll like it.”

 

“Not even a hint?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“You’re serious?”

 

“As a heart attack.”

 

She forcibly sighs, exaggerating her frustration. “You’re impossible.”

 

He laughs, accepting it. “I know.”

 

Zoning out, she wishes he was here, celebrating with her. He was one of the few people she leaned on in stressful times in the past two years and to not be able to see him, yet again, is getting tiring. Every time there’s been something going on -- holidays, mainly -- he still could never get off to come in.

 

Last Christmas he had planned to come to Stars Hollow to visit his mom and Luke and, for the first time since their initial meeting, see her. She ran around for two days, a flurry of butterflies and nerves that she was finally able to see him again, making sure she had her assignments done and newspaper articles in. But a meeting came up for him down in Philadelphia and he backed out last minute because, apparently, the world of publishing stops for nothing and no one.

 

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat, “here’s to hoping we can see each other soon.” She lifts her arm, raising an imaginary glass.

 

He whispers, “Yeah, here’s hoping.”

 

“Thanks for the gift, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

 

“You better,” he says, all husky and deep.

 

“Oh, and if I don’t?” She raises her eyebrows in surprise.

 

“Well, then I just don’t know what I’d do with myself,” he mockingly declares.

 

“Bye, Jess.”

 

“Congratulations, Rory.”

 

Hanging up, she smiles as she presses the edge of the phone to her lips.

 

\---

 

She waits until she gets back to the apartment she shares with Paris late that night -- after hours of celebrating and schmoozing at her grandparents house -- to open the gift, a medium-sized rectangular-shaped package wrapped neatly in nondescript gray paper.

 

Settling in at her desk, one of the few things she brought with her from her house when she officially moved, she rips it open quickly. It’s a stack of papers bound by fasteners, indicative of a manuscript. There’s a single sheet of paper clipped to the top page with a note:

 

_Wanted to give you something you’ve been nagging me about for months now. Figured this would be better than cash that I don’t have or a car -- that, again, with the cash I don’t have, I can’t afford._

 

_Ok, to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what college graduates even want ‘cause only Matt went and his weepy, romantic self got a poem anthology and a fully loaded metro card._

 

_So, here’s the rough draft in its entirety, waiting for your red ink to mark it up. Oh, yeah, you’re the first to read it, be honored. - Jess_

 

Her mouth wide open from shock, she rips away the note to see the title: _The Unknown_

 

Shaking her head, she composes herself and grabs the closest pen she can find -- purple, not red -- before throwing herself onto the bed and getting to work.


	2. 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check previous chapter for story disclaimer and notes. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_ but, honey, i’ll be seeing you, ever, i go.  _

_ i’ll be seeing you, down every road. _

\- Lorde -  
  


“Morning, Gilmore. You got the gig.”  
  


She answered the phone in a haze of sleep induced drool and jet lag from her flight to London the previous night. Her mouth feels like cotton and her limbs are sore because no matter how often she flies, she’ll never quite get used to sitting in tiny coach seats between people who don’t know the meaning of personal space.  
  


Sitting straight up, her hair is big and knotted from tossing and turning and she tries to speak without the sound of sleep in her voice. “Wait, what?”  
  


“We’re giving you the Europe job, you leave in two days,” her boss, Hughes, tells her.  
  


She applied to those jobs a few months ago, surprisingly up against several other experienced travel writers and photographers with amazing portfolios and resumes, so she never thought she’d get it. But she likes to believes that she learned something about perseverance from her mother.  
  


Blowing her hair out of her face,  she says, “Wow, um, thank you!”  
  


“Of course. As you know by the itinerary you’ll be staying in each country from a week to two weeks, so try to get your articles in by the deadline this time.”  
  


Rory rolls her eyes good-naturedly, wanting to laugh. She missed a deadline by 15 minutes  _ one _ time and she’s never going to live it down.  
  


“Will do. Thanks again, I’ll stop by the office before I leave.”  
  


She hangs up, throwing the phone onto her nightstand, plugging it in to charge more than ten percent. Moving around the small loft, she picks out everything she’ll need for the trip -- tripod, new camera her mother gave her a few years ago, and the new Mac her grandparents gave her, oddly supportive of her career choice.  
  


London called out to her a few years after she graduated seven years ago. She bounced around from larger magazines, like  _ Condé Nast _ and  _ Travel + Leisure _ , mainly being a part of their writing team, but not getting to do the traveling that she really wanted to do. It’s when she found  _ Wanderlust _ , a U.K. based travel magazine that allows her to do both and her camera thanks her.  
  


Also, she thanks them for not having to be at the office every day because she gets to keep her London apartment -- even though the magazine is technically an hour away -- and there’s no way she’s giving that up.  
  


She certainly doesn’t hate her life right now. With her 27th birthday around the corner, she has to say she doesn’t have many regrets. Sure, her life had moved pretty fast -- high school to college to internships to straight into the real world -- but she doesn’t think she’d change any of it.  
  


Well, maybe just one thing.  
  


\---  
  


They’ve fallen out of touch over the years, her and Jess, and it’s probably both of their faults, if she has to admit. She got busy with trying to find jobs and he got swept up in another best seller of a novel -- that she’ll never forget helping with.  
  


(“What if I tell you that you’re bordering on Hemingway territory?”  
  


“I’ll say that you’re lying and that, honestly, that affects you more than it does me.”  
  


She grumbles, adding punctuation with her pen, “You’re silly obsession with that man I will never understand.”  
  


“I could say the same about your need to bring Rand up in every conversation.”  
  


“She’s a genius.”  
  


“Don’t you mean nut?” He says, sarcastically.  
  


“Seriously, though, Jess?” She flips all the papers face up, tucking them back together. “It’s amazing.”  
  


“I couldn’t have done it without you.”)  
  


If she had to pinpoint a time when they stopped talking, it’d be probably a year after her graduation. Six years of silence can do a lot to a friendship and a person, and while she’s thought about him multiple times, she talks herself out of it.  
  


He hasn’t taken it upon himself to contact her, either.  
  


They simply lost touch, it happens, she just wishes she could figure out why.  
  


\---  
  


**_Paris, France.  
  
_ **

“Juste le fromage, s’il vous plaît.” Rory says, practicing the small amount of French she learned in high school. She had stopped at a street vendor to get a plain cheeseburger to go, on the run to get one of these articles finished and a blog post uploaded.  
  


Taking a hiatus from her website caused a lot of her followers to wonder where she was and wish her a congrats on being back in the game, understanding that she needed to take a break because of the busy past few years.  
  


2013 is a new year for her, and despite her rocky personal problems she’s determined to at least rise professionally.  
  


The vendor hands her a wrapped burger and her change. “Merci,” she says as he smiles and gives her a nod, and she heads to the bus stop.  
  


The schedule says it won’t be here for another 20 minutes so she unwraps the burger and takes out her laptop to at least get the article finished before she can find wifi to post it. It’s about the main attractions of Paris, and the history of each landmark. Her pictures of the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe are in Photoshop, ready to be edited as need be, but her favourite shots are the aerial shots of the city, the Seine river slicing through the left right half of the picture and the sun setting overhead.  
  


She remembers the day she took it, at the top of the structure with the wind blowing her hair around but her hand steady, and for a brief moment it felt as if she was the only one up there.  
  


When she’s missing home or doesn’t have enough money during certain months, that’s when moment’s like that one, are what make this career completely worth it.    
  


\---  
  


The finishing touches to the article are done as she sits on the bus with the laptop open in front of her, and she reviews it twice before sending it to her boss; so close to sending a cheeky added message about her lateness, but she refrains.  
  


She leans back against the headrest, the bus taking her to her hotel about 10 minutes away, and looks out the window absentmindedly.  
  


This is the first time she sees him.  
  


Driving past an outdoor cafe, in what feels like slow motion, she sees him sitting parallel to the street. His jean jacket clings to him nicely, the sleeves rolled up his forearms, as he's bent over a notebook with a Fitzgerald sitting open on the table and his hair hangs in his face.  
  


Something about him seems inherently familiar, but she can’t put her finger on it until he raises his head and looks right at her when she’s too far past to do anything about it.  
  


His presence surprises her so much that all she can do is stare straight ahead, back stiff against the soft cushion, wondering what just happened.  
  


\---  
  


**_Versailles, France  
  
_ **

Rory doesn’t let her seeing him two days ago get in the way of the job she needs to do. She’s lucky to be in Versailles for the next few days because she may have only known him two years, but she knows he wouldn’t be traipsing around the Palace, he’d much prefer to sit in places like Shakespeare and Company or find more underground, less touristy spots to spend his time.  
  


They talked about Versailles once, on a late night phone call during college and they talked about all the places she would want to visit in her lifetime and some of the places that she already has. She brought up Versailles because she didn’t visit it on her trip with her mom after graduation and, frankly, being the history buff that she secretly is, Rory regretted it.  
  


She vowed to him that she’d visit it one day, not for her mom or even for him telling her that she should, but solely for herself.  
  


Now here she is, standing in the gardens that run along the south side, running her hands on the leaves of the trees and facing the water from the canal in the distance, and all she can think of is how he made a deal with her that if she ever made it there to send a picture from her favourite room in the house.  
  


But that was  _ before _ .  
  


\---  
  


Taking her chances, she emails him a few pictures of the garden and the Hall of Mirrors -- her favourite room -- with the line:  
  


_ I never forget a deal.  
  
_

He doesn’t answer her back.  
  


\---  
  


**_Nice, France  
  
_ **

The beach is 20 feet from her hotel and she’s stuck inside, wearing her bathing suit, and slouched on the bed. It was a nice and cool 70° when she decided to take a writing break, but the minute she stepped into her flip flops it started to pour.  
  


She debates still going, wanting to release some pent up energy and what better way to do that than run through the rain, but she decides against it given she has her second article due tomorrow and she hasn’t really touched it since she left Versailles yesterday.  
  


The last time she went to the beach was during spring break her freshman year of college, so the water is calling her name. She remembers her and Paris slurring and stumbling to the sandy beach after getting drunk at the club that night.  
  


“God, Florida is such a sty, why did we agree to this again?”  
  


“Warm,” is all Rory simply said in return, as she licked her sticky lips and laid face down in the sand.  
  


Now it’s not so warm, and while the beach is pretty barren of any tourists or even locals, she simply opens the screened-in window to allow a breeze and kicks back on the bed to work on her articles -- “The Top Ten Restaurants in Versailles” which is her boss’ clickbait choice, and “The Historical Influence of Versailles and Nice Architecture.”  
  


She checks her e-mail when she’s done sending it, and he still hasn’t replied to her. Irrational frustration flares at the base of her neck as she slams her laptop closed.  
  


\---  
  


Ten minutes later she’s running barefoot along the pebbled beach and screaming into the rain.  
  


\---  
  


**_Madrid, Spain  
  
_ **

The second time she sees him is in the  _ Plaza Mayor _ in the heart of Madrid. She’s eating a snack at one of the cafe’s, having met up with a friend she made when she studied abroad. Her head is bent over her plate, a churro in one hand and the cup of hot chocolate sitting out in front of her.  
  


Her friend prattles on about the master’s degree she earned at Columbia that, so far, has done absolutely nothing for her as she looks out into the sea of people crossing the courtyard in all directions. Dipping the churro in her drink, she brings it to her lips as she catches the eye of someone walking nearby.  
  


It’s him -- again -- and it causes butterflies in her stomach in the worst way. How is it that he’s everywhere she is?  
  


He’s just as handsome as he was when she saw him two weeks ago, and just as handsome as he was when they first met. He seems taller almost, head up straight and shoulders higher.    
  


She’s still shocked to the point where she can’t even eat, the churro just sticking out of her mouth, and he raises his eyebrow, smirking and giving a little wave before breaking eye contact and walking off.  
  


Her friend tries to get her attention, but she simply stares off in the direction he left, now more confused than ever.  
  


What the hell just happened?  
  


\---  
  


**_Barcelona, Spain  
  
_ **

It’s warm here. Not just in the typical 80° weather kind of way, but in the ‘everything is orange and red and full of an intangible kind of warmth no matter what building you’re in or who you’re talking to’ kind of way.  
  


Which is a good thing as she sneaks off from writing her articles to go to the amusement park close to her hotel, spreading her arms as she sits in the swinging chairs. It spins fast, the wind blowing her hair so hard it will probably knot, but all she can see is farther out into the distance.  
  


There’s a smile on her face that hasn’t been there in days.  
  


\---  
  


The smile stays -- along with nerves -- as Rory checks her e-mail for the fifth time that day and sees he’s finally responded:  
  


_ Haven’t checked this e-mail in weeks.  _

_ Good to know you can keep your end of the bargain. _

_ \- Jess.  
  
_

He leaves his new contact info at the end, but she’s still too nervous to use it right away. Typing it into her phone, she reminds herself to send something later.  
  


\---  
  


The third time she sees him is in the park, sitting in front of the large fountain with one leg crossed over, the ankle resting on his knee. He’s reading ‘The Holy Barbarians’ with an extremely intense look and it brings a smile to her face.  
  


Rory remembers reading that book in high school and loving it; she always kind of knew he’d be interested in it.  
  


While his head is still bent, she lifts the camera hanging around her chest to capture the moment. The water arching over him is dramatic, but he fits in well with his surroundings.  
  


He seems to be able to do that anywhere as her mind flashes back to when they first met on the streets of Rome.  
  


The click of the camera captures his attention, and he looks up quickly. Rory tentatively smiles and walks forward.  
  


She points at the book. “‘ _ All the broken, the doomed, the drunk, and the disillusioned - _ ’”  
  


“‘ _ Herding together for a little human warmth _ ,’” he finishes, breathing deeply.  
  


They stare at each other, soft smiles on their faces, before dropping their eyes.  
  


She debates leaving, different parts pulling her in every direction. He makes the decision for her, moving the notebook sitting beside him.  
  


They don’t look at each other again after she sits.  
  


\---  
  


“So,” she clears her throat after several moments of silence, “are you stalking me now?”  
  


“Just doing my job.”  
  


“Which is stalking me?”  
  


“Well, you see,” he says, closing the book and marking the page with his pinky, “your mom hired me to follow your every move so you don’t get, you know, murdered or anything.”  
  


She furrows her brow, “You don’t even know my mom.”  
  


“That’s not entirely true, now is it?”  
  


She thinks back to when her mom and Luke got married, only being able to stop into town for the day of which completely threw her off and upset her mom greatly, but there wasn’t much Rory could do. Jess wasn’t at the wedding, but he must have visited his uncle enough to actually meet Lorelai.  
  


It leaves her discombobulated that she wasn’t able to introduce him to her mom herself.  
  


“But, seriously, I’m here doing my job.”  
  


“So am I.”  
  


Rory obviously doesn’t divulge that she checks up on him every now and then, either through her mom or Luke or by way of his website which is surprisingly still active.  
  


(He doesn’t divulge that he does the same.)  
  


\---  
  


She makes sure the new number he gave her in the e-mail from a few days ago is the right one, and calls him on the way back to her hotel.  
  


“Just wanted to make sure you got mine, too.”  
  


“Good to know.”  
  


Silence, before she bites the bullet. “It was good seeing you again, Jess.”  
  


“You too, Rory.” He sucks in a deep, heaving breath before replying, “I’m not mad, by the way.”  
  


She sighs happily, “Good.”  
  


\---  
  


They agree to meet up the next morning, at a bookstore and coffee shop right outside of the Gothic Quarter.  
  


Rory tells him she’s going to Bilbao the next morning, to meet a curator at the Guggenheim museum and he’s hopping over to Amsterdam because his editor thinks the fresh canal air and the red light district would do him and his third novel some good.  
  


She flushes, and he says he doesn’t agree.  
  


“Maybe I’ll see you there.”  
  


Opening the itinerary on her phone, she’s surprised, “Well, it’s next on here, so you just might.”  
  


“Are you sure it’s not you who’s stalking me?”  
  


She rolls her eyes, taking the last sip of her coffee.  
  


It’s gone cold.  
  


\---  
  


Her arms wrap around his neck before she can stop them, and it’s odd. They’ve never touched before and the feeling is terribly overwhelming and makes goosebumps rise on her arms.  
  


It takes him a bit to wrap his arms around her waist, not expecting physical contact either it seems, but he easily relaxes into the embrace.  
  


Her nose rests on the collar of his button up shirt and she breathes in.  _ He smells really --  
  
_

“Are you sniffing me?”  
  


Flushing, she pulls back to look in his face, but keeps her arms on his shoulders. “You know, I’ve missed you. I just--I want you to know what.”  
  


He simply nods, staring intensely.  “I know.”  
  


It’s obvious that he missed her, too.  
  


\---  
  


She rides the train to Bilbao the next day with a smile on her face.  
  


\---  
  


**_Amsterdam, Netherlands  
  
_ **

Rory starts to wonder if her boss sent her on a side trip here just to subtly tell her to chill out. She knows she can be a bit high strung, and when it comes to her job playing it more than a little by the book is what she does.  
  


Yet, being here for two days with no actual deadline for an article or an assignment she was given, it’s definitely starting to dawn on her that this wasn’t supposed to be one of her actual stops.  
  


When Jess texts her to meet him at a table by the canal close to the hostel she’s staying at, she doesn’t particularly mind.  
  


Especially when she gets close enough to see the cigarette hanging loosely out of his mouth and his index finger flipping the pages absentmindedly.  
  


The sight does something to her.  
  


She’s not one for the whole cigarette smoker aesthetic, but the ease with which he does it and the way his cheeks hollow as he takes a drag has her thinking -

 

(the fingers, his lips, his tongue)  
  


\- a lot of different things.  
  


\---  
  


“What exactly makes you think I want to go to this?”  
  


Rory forces him to go to the Anne Frank Museum with her, a completely self-indulgent adventure although she will be writing an article on the popularity of the museum and how influential she was.  
  


Ever since they studied her in German History 301, she’s always wanted to come and experience it first hand.  
  


She reminds herself to send her boss a thank you card for the random pit stop.  
  


“Because you get to learn more about history?”  
  


He shakes his head.  
  


“Because you can mark it off on your secret bucket list?”  
  


He laughs loudly -- which throws her off in it’s oddity -- before staring at her incredulously.  
  


“Because….you get to be with me?” She sticks her bottom lip out slightly.  
  


His laughter dies down, growing silent, but there’s a hint of a small smile on his face as he looks at her pouted lips and wide eyes.  
  


Jaw clench and a lick of the lips, he concedes, “Fine.”  
  


She gives a little jig as they head inside, his hand warm against the small of her back.  
  


\---  
  


Lorelai loses it when she tells her, saying Rory’s womanly wiles were put to good use.  
  


Her mom then starts telling a crass contraception joke, but Rory hangs up before she can finish.  
  


\---  
  


‘It’s the best article you’ve done recently, over 13,000 views and 10,000 shares,’ her tells her in an e-mail. ‘What happened, Gilmore?’  
  


As she watches Jess saunter down the aisle of the souvenir shop -- that she also forced him to go to -- he turns around with a sinfully raised eyebrow, having picked up a pair of fuzzy handcuffs on the table in the back.  
  


Rory hides her face in embarrassment, but laughs under her breath.  
  


He’s what happened.  
  


\---  
  


Coffeeshops are not what she thought they were here, as she runs out confused from the smoke-filled room as soon as she enters. Jess follows in her wake, trying not to laugh, but he saves her the embarrassment by sticking a cigarette in his mouth.  
  


He offers her one, raising his eyebrows in question, and Rory gives him a withering stare.  
  


Fuck it, he still laughs.  
  


\---  
  


Jess suggests the Red Light District after a whole day of doing pretty much nothing because her feet hurt and she just wants to  _ sleep _ . They’re in her hotel room -- she’s still dressed in her pajamas -- and he’s sitting at the end of the bed. She reaches out and kicks his thigh with her bare foot.  
  


“What, and go to a strip club?"  
  


He simply shrugs, forcing his mouth downturned smirk as if to show indifference. “Could be fun,” he says, pinching the heel of her foot lightly.  
  


She hides her feet, slipping them under the thigh she just kicked. He’s nice and warm.  
  


“Sure, when pigs fly.”  
  


\---  
  


She wakes up at 8 that night with a cramp in her foot, and looks down to see him lying sideways with his bottom half still resting on foot. He’s got a hand resting on the top of her leg right above her knee and he’s snoring softly.  
  


She can’t help but giggle at how cute the sight is, but Rory won’t tell him that.  
  


\---  
  


One last stop before the next leg of her journey is the courtyard outside of Die Nieuwe Kerk. Lorelai paid her $30 to go and try find that living statue that looked way too much like Bono that they showed on the news.  
  


Jess has been at bookstore writing all day, the muse kicking in, so she’s alone in her search of the missing doppelganger.  
  


Good thing, too, because it allows her time to think.  
  


About him, about them, about all of it.  
  


She’s come to terms that there’s something there, at least on her end; she doesn’t exactly hide it.  
  


And he’s constantly with her, pretty much decided to travel alongside her during her job. Being a freelance writer allows him that freedom, and honestly, she’s loving it.  
  


The friendship, the camaraderie, the company of someone so much like herself; she hasn’t felt this way in years. Well, since the last time they were genuine friends six years ago.  
  


It saddened her for so long that it had happened, but life happens and they’ve worked through it.  
  


Rory just hopes that he feels the same.  
  


\---  
  


**_Cologne, Germany  
  
_ **

The tall steeples of the church rise above her as she tries to get the perfect shot without other tourists running her over. Which, surprisingly, they do a lot because they have no courtesy -- for locals or otherwise.  
  


Her grandpa’s favourite country he ever visited was Germany so she knew she’d want to do the sights as much justice as she could so he would be proud. He gave her a list of places to see while she was there, and she’s already crossed three off her list.  
  


Sitting down, she crosses her leg to get a better perspective shot of one of the steeples. Getting ready to hit the release, someone stands right in front of her lens.  
  


“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispers under her breathe. “Excuse me!”  
  


Rory looks up to the back of Jess’ head and then stares off dejectedly. Of course he would.  
  


“You know, I’ve never liked Gothic architecture. Too musty,” he says innocently as he turns around.  
  


“ _ You’re _ too musty.” Hitting his leg, she grabs the edge of his jeans to pull him sideways and back. “Now move.”  
  


She grabs the perfectly just before the sun moves behind a cloud.  
  


He grabs her hand to help her up, and she puts the cap back on the lens. “You almost ruined my shot.”  
  


“Not my fault you want to sit around and take pictures of things that will be here  _ forever _ .”  
  


“It’s my job!” Smiling, Rory pushes at his chest with the palm of her hand. She lets it rest for a second longer than necessary. “Plus, I like history, what can I say.”  
  


“You can say you’re boring,” he shrugs.  
  


She opens her mouth, ready to argue. Closing it quickly, she grabs his hand and pulls him after her. “Shut up.”  
  


\---  
  


They rent a car two days after that to drive down to Künzelsau, a small town that her grandfather had also told her about. He had stayed there during a work conference and surprisingly fell in love with the quiet charm, so she thought she’d give it a shot.  
  


Jess drives, talking about how he hasn’t gotten to in a while since living in the city doesn’t really allow for a car. They play some CD’s she had burned, and let the windows down the cool breeze washing over them.  
  


She look over at him, profile intense as he stares at the road before him, and she realizes then that she could do this forever.  
  


\---  
  


**_Künzelsau, Germany  
  
_ **

Rory kisses him one day.  
  


To be specific, it’s the second day they’re in town.  
  


Coming out of an ice cream shop in downtown -- eating both of the flavours in cones, of course -- he was talking to her about some poet that Matt had decided to cover at one of their open houses in Philly.  
  


He was talking animatedly, and enough was enough --  
  


She moved in quickly, putting her hand on the side of neck as he turned to look at her and her lips were pressed against his, sticky from the chocolate. Rory’s still for a moment, allowing him to get used to it -- and to see if he’ll pull away; please don’t, please don’t --  
  


Then he’s wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her closer as his mouth opens; she moans softly at the feel of his tongue against her bottom lip.  
  


She pulls back, resting her forehead against his, her breath coming out in small pants, and he laughs softly. “Well -”  
  


“I’ve been wanting to do that for awhile.”  
  


He looks at her under the hooded lids of his eyes, “Glad you did.”  
  


“Yeah?”  
  


“Yeah.”  
  


She smiles brightly, giggling as she sees her cone has melted all over her hand.  
  


\---  
  


It’s been a few days, and they still haven’t actually talked about what happened.  
  


Sure, he flirts and smirks and touches her hand as they walk the streets, but they haven’t actually formed words outside of the fact that they both wanted to do it. Just like everything else in her life, she’s very by the book -- which means she wants to know what he wants, wants to hear it directly from him.  
  


When she finally has the guts to say something, he informs her that he has to leave for Berlin that night; his editor is meeting him to go over how well is novel is going so far -- something she sees him working on daily.  
  


He takes the train, and leaves her the car with a note on the dashboard that simply says:  
  


_ Meet me when you’re done.  
  
_

\---  
  


Rory spends the next three days scouring the whole town for something to do, but it reminds her too much of Stars Hollow and she doesn’t want to be here anymore.  
  


\---  
  


**_Berlin, Germany  
  
_ **

She drives for six hours to get to Berlin, gripping the wheel tightly and leaving the car completely silent. She checks into her hotel around 3:00 that afternoon and checks her texts and e-mails.  
  


Nothing.  
  


Rory sends him a text, a simple:  
  


_ Made it safely in.  
  
_

And adds the address to the hotel she’s staying at.  
  


Fall back on the bed, she lays spread eagle, sleep pulling at her eyelids before she can do anything about it.  
  


\---  
  


There’s banging on the door that makes her jolt awake. Moving to get up, her back and neck cracks from napping in an uncomfortable position. She see’s it’s still light out, so she didn’t sleep too long.  
  


Pulling the door open, it’s Jess standing there and his duffel at his feet and a tense stance. She’s glad to see him as she smiles. “Hey, everything okay?”  
  


He slides in, kicking his duffel to the other side of the bed. “Yeah, just frustrated with Julie.”  
  


She gives him a quizzical look.  
  


“My editor.”  
  


“Oh.”  
  


He shrugs his jacket off, folding it over the arm of the chair. “Yeah, she wants me to scrap a whole section from the book. Say’s it won’t evoke emotion in my readers and it’s too literal.”  
  


“Is it?”  
  


“Is it what?” He looks up at her.  
  


“Too literal? I mean, your first two books were pretty symbolic, metaphorical. Even though they capture certain places and people,” she looks down and smiles as she says this, knowing she was a character in his second book, “things, you never really settled on an easy, concrete version of things.”  
  


“I mean,” he frowns, picking at the seam of his jeans, “I thought I was; maybe subconsciously I was trying something new.” He tugs at the edge of her shorts. “Or maybe I was distracted.”  
  


Her breath hitches as she bites her lip. “At least I’m doing something right.”  
  


“You do plenty of things right.”  
  


Leaning in slowly, he counters her movements before she lightly pushes his head away. “So cheesy.”  
  


“Truthful?”  
  


“Lame?”  
  


“I’ll go with cheesy.”  
  


She smiles as she flicks him on the shoulder.  
  


\---  
  


“It’s my birthday today.”  
  


“I remember.”  
  


During her junior year abroad he bought her tickets to see Sonic Youth play at the Atlantico after ‘Rather Ripped’ came out. She had a huge smile on her face the whole night as she sent videos to Lane, and one selfie of herself with the back to the stage to Jess.  
  


“I can’t believe I’m 27,” she groans, falls face first into the pillows. Her voice is muffled as she says, “I’m so old.”  
  


“Sorry, Agnes.”  
  


“Thanks, Harold.”  
  


The clock’s ticking away as it gets later and later into the afternoon.

  
Jess is in the corner of the room, facing out the window as he hashes it out with editor on the phone for the third time that week. She feels frustrated for him.  
  


There’s a shrill ding from her phone and she sees a text from her mom:  
  


Mom: _  
_ _ Hey, kid. How’s my birthday girl?  
  
_

She smiles, lying fat on her back and holding the phone above her.  
  


Rory Gilmore: _  
_ _ I’m good. Old, but good.  
  
_

Mom:

_ Sorry, Agnes.  
  
_

That throws her off, causing her to look up at the back of Jess’ head. They are way too much alike.  
  


Mom:

_ If you’re old I don’t even want to know what I am.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:   
_ Would you feel better if I said you look younger than me?  
  
_

Mom:

_ Yes.  
  
_

Mom:   
_ But I know you’d be lying.  
  
_

Mom:   
_ Don’t lie to mama.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_ Sorry, Maude.  
  
_

It takes a minute for her mom to respond, probably busy with work.  
  


Mom:

_ What’re you going to do today?  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_ Eh, probably just going to dinner with Jess, I guess.  
  
_

Mom:

_ Does he ever work?  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_ He’s a writer, mom, he can do it from anywhere.  
  
_

Mom:

_ Sure, but he seems to want to follow  _ you _ anywhere.  
  
_

Rory flushes, Jess staring at her now that he’s off the phone.  
  


She licks her lips.  
  


Rory Gilmore:   
_ Maybe.  
  
_

Mom:

_ Be careful, Kid.  
  
_

Mom:

_ I’ll order a second ice cream cone to celebrate with you.  
  
_

Rory Gilmore:

_ Love you.  
  
_

Mom:   
_ You too, hun.  
  
_

As she plugs her phone back in, to charge, he throws his current manuscript on the bed at her feet. She looks at him quizzically.  
  


He lays a purple pen on top.  
  


“It’s my birthday and your gift is for me to edit your book? Wouldn’t that be more like your present?”  
  


He tugs at her shoelaces. “Isn’t that our thing? I write, you edit. Happily, might I add, because you’re such a nerd.”  
  


Rory stares at the stack of paper, tempted to tell him to shove it, but grabs it giddily and hugs it to her chest with a smile. She stands, head held high. “Well, in the honor of tradition,” she says, setting herself up at the table.  
  


\---  
  


They end up in a club that night after dinner. One of many in the center of Berlin. They were walking around in silence, happily full from the Weiner Schnitzel and bread they had, when they passed by a place that didn’t seem to only be playing EDM on repeat.  
  


Jess gets a light beer and Rory gets a dark and stormy, and they settle in a corner booth all to themselves.  
  


It’s hot in here, the mesh of bodies moving all around them making her pull the collar of her shirt away from her neck.  
  


She look at him, sipping at the tall drink, and to be quite honest if they were playing anything other than the punk that’s currently playing, he’d look so out of place.  
  


His eyes catch hers over the rim of his cup and he twitches his eyebrow upwards.  
  


“Thanks,” she raises her voice slightly, moving her hips sideways to get closer to him.  
  


He swallows and she watches as his adam’s apple bobs under the strain.  
  


She wipes at sweat on her hairline.  
  


“For what?” Leaning forward, his mouth is at the edge of her jaw.  
  


“Celebrating with me.”  
  


Their cheeks touch as she closes her eyes momentarily.  
  


“I don’t celebrate,” he says, voice mockingly broody.  
  


She throws her head back, exposing her neck as she laughs. “Ok, fine, being with me.”  
  


Their noses barely touch as she brings her head back to face him, him huskily saying, “There you go.”  
  


\---  
  


His mouth is hot against her neck and she digs her fingers into the shoulder of his jacket, pulling him closer. The thigh between her legs presses up and in and she moans, dropping her head back against the scratchy wall of the hotel room.  
  


She knows nothing will happen -- having both been drinking and not being in the right head space, but it doesn’t stop her from moving her hips back against him and bringing his head back to hers; their tongues tangling and she threads her fingers through his hair.  
  


Jess bites at her bottom lip, causing her hips to move faster and faster.  
  


His hands grip her hips, slowing her movements, his breath panting against her lips; a soft guttural groan leaves his mouth.  
  


“Wow,” she sighs, her lips plump and red and her eyes heavy.  
  


He laughs breathily, “Yeah.”  
  


They stare at each other, eyes giving away everything as if to say:  _ We’re picking this up later.  
  
_

\---  
  


Rory wakes up the next morning with her head resting on his bare stomach, finger hooked into the front pocket of his jeans and his hand is tucked on her side, right above her hip.  
  


Pressing her lips the skin of his stomach, she sighs contentedly.  
  


\---  
  


**_Venice, Italy  
  
_ **

She ends the trip back in the place where it all started.  
  


Well, not Rome, but Italy. Where she fell for art and photography, and where she spent one of the best years of her college experience.  
  


Where she met him.  
  


If someone had told her she’d be traveling the world, living the dream, and doing it all with a stranger she met way back when, she would’ve laughed.  
  


Yet, here she is: lying back in a gondola, camera at the ready to get the perfect shot of the driver encompassed by the Rialto Bridge behind him. Jess had went off searching for perfect writing spots, having never been to Venice before, and knowing she needed the time alone to really concentrate.  
  


Rory’s glad he’s here, but nervous that she doesn’t know what’s coming next. She’s always on the move and he lives back in New York; if they go another six years without speaking she isn’t sure how she could handle it.  
  


Closing her eyes and shaking her head, she directs the driver to face the camera.  
  


She’ll think about Jess later.  
  


\---  
  


“Give me gelato or give me death!”  
  


Rory digs into her cup of chocolate raspberry goodness.  
  


“I’m sure if you ate enough of it, it’d give you death,” Jess says snarkily.  
  


“At least I’ll die happy.”  
  


“Or end up in a sugar-induced coma.”  
  


She squints her eyes, threatening to throw her spoon at him, but not wanting to waste it. “Eat yours and shush.”  
  


\---  
  


They go on a date.  
  


Not in so many words, but she knows it is.  
  


Pseudo-date, if you will.  
  


They spend the afternoon eating at one of her favourite restaurants that she went to a few years back with her mom -- she tried to take her grandmother, but it was a bit too laid back for her style -- and then spend another hour in one of the local art museums.  
  


She tells him that it doesn’t seem like his style, traipsing through the grandiose halls and looking at sculptures and paintings.  
  


He tells her that when his mom yelled at him or one of her boyfriends had thrown a punch, that the MOMA would be one of the few places he could go to clear his head.  
  


Rory knew his family had issues, but she never quite understood until now. She links her fingers with his as they continue on, a silent helper devoid of pity.  
  


\---  
  


Jess sneaks the camera away from her right before the museum closes, snapping a picture of her from behind as she head through to the next room, large statues on either side of her.  
  


She keeps it saved as her website header, and her followers enjoy it.  
  


\---  
  


Rory sneaks a deep kiss in the corner of an empty gallery, leaving him with his eyes closed and head falling forward, wanting more.  
  


\---  
  


“Are you sure?”  
  


His hands run over her hips, hooking his fingers into the top of her jeans, stilling his movements until he hears her response.  
  


“Yes,” she whispers, sitting up to raise her shirt over her head and throws it in the corner of the hotel room.  
  


There’s nothing stopping them this time; no alcohol or nerves or second guessing.  
  


Just the light from the low setting sun coming through the window, bouncing off her body as he brings the fabric down her legs.  
  


Just the heady smell of sex permeating the air as he wraps his lips around her clit and she raises her hips off the edge of the bed, a broken moan ripping from her throat.  
  


Just the heavy feel of him against her tongue as she bends down over him, and his fingers curl through her hair.  
  


And when she comes, sitting on top of him, her thighs shaking against his hips and his hands grasping her waist and breath panting against the top of her breast, she thinks she might just be a little bit in love with him.  
  


\---  
  


**_Rome, Italy  
  
_ **

The last stop on her journey is one that she didn’t intend to make. It wasn’t on the itinerary and it wasn’t even where she was planning to end up when the beginning of this job came out.  
  


But now she’s here, standing on the same bridge overlooking the same river with the same feeling of the unknown curling around spine.  
  


The camera shakes as Rory raises it up, her eye looking through the viewfinder. She takes a deep breath and takes the shot.  
  


\---  
  


As cheesy as she knows it is, she’s sitting at the bench where they first met, legs crossed but arms spread.  
  


“Well, don’t you look comfortable,” Jess says, coming up from down the road.  
  


She smiles before opening her eyes to see him, legs spread and his hands in his jacket pockets.  
  


“I was before you interrupted my meditating.”  
  


“You don’t even meditate.”  
  


“I’ve got many hidden talents,” she says, standing up.  
  


He pulls her forward by the hem of her shirt. “Oh, yeah?”  
  


“Mh-hm,” Rory smirks, licking her lips quickly before pecking his cheek.  
  


“When are you leaving?”  
  


She sighs, looking down at the front of his shirt, pulling at the fabric of the brown sweater. “Tonight. You?”  
  


“Same, but I have a few layovers before I hit the city.”  
  


“I’ll have to come visit when I can. I have no idea how long they’ll want me to stay in London,” she says, sadness creeping into her voice.  
  


He contemplates something for a minute, before shrugging, “I’ve never been to London.”  
  


Rory laughs, throwing her head back. “I could see you there.”  
  


He tugs her closer, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “We’ll figure it out.”  
  


“Sounds good.”  
  


He rubs his fingers along the inside of her arm as they head off.  
  


\---  
  


They talk animatedly on the way into the airport, weighed down by their luggage.  
  


He leaves a kiss on her lips and a rub of the nose as they say goodbye at the gate, each taking different planes.  
  


Rory still feels the kiss down to her toes when she boards the plane and relaxes into the seat. Her cheeks hurt from the urge to grin.  
  


Her face brightens and her involuntary falls into a smile when she gets a text from him right before taking off:  
  


_ Next country we end up in, I’m asking you out for real.  
  
_

Her entire body shakes in giddy pleasure as she takes out his to-be-edited manuscript and holds it close to her heart.


End file.
